


Just Watch the Fireworks

by dottieapple



Category: Captain America (Comics), Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types
Genre: Gen, Gen or Pre-Slash, Idiots in Love, M/M, Pre-Captain America: The First Avenger, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Pre-World War II Bucky Barnes, Steve Rogers birthday
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-08
Updated: 2019-07-08
Packaged: 2020-06-24 22:45:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,051
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19733200
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dottieapple/pseuds/dottieapple
Summary: Loosely, this is almost a songfic, based off Jimmy Eat World's song of the same title.Happy birthday, Steven Grant Rogers!A SteveBucky fic featuring young, dumb boys with feelings they don't know how to talk about, and the possibility of a present-day chapter where they are old, dumb boys who might figure out how to talk about it.





	Just Watch the Fireworks

**Author's Note:**

> Unbeta'd, all mistakes my own, I'm yeeting this fic at the fandom about four days too late as it is. Grab a piece of cake and let's party!

**1934**

Bucky digs down into the picnic basket he borrowed from his parents. He needs to make sure everything is there: the sandwiches, the apples, two Coca-colas and a bottle opener, the carefully wrapped chunk of cake that Steve definitely doesn’t know about. 

Becca hands Bucky the card she’d made with Kitty and Teddy, and even Winnifred has signed it. “Aren’t you gonna sign it too, Bucky? Steve’s your best friend. Wouldn’t it be rude to not sign his birthday card?” 

“Eh, Pop didn’t sign it either,” Bucky dismisses her.

“Pop’s at work,” Becca retorts, sticking out her tongue. 

“I’ll sign it later,” Bucky waves his hand and peers into the picnic basket again. “I think I have everything.” 

“Bucky, are your hands shaking? Are you nervous? Why?” Becca leans in. “Don’t tell me you’re going to ditch your best friend to kiss some girl at the fireworks.” 

Bucky screws up his face. “Rebecca Barnes, I would never! _ Now _ who doesn’t have any manners?” 

“ _ You,  _ James, if you leave your pal so you can go get handsy under the boardwalk.” Becca tosses her hair and walks away. 

Bucky’s stomach does a somersault. He adds the Barnes family birthday card to the contents of the basket and checks one more time to make sure he has everything, including the small wrapped package with a twine bow. He announces he’s off to the Rogers’, and he’ll see everyone in the morning. 

“Give Steven a birthday hug from me!” Winnifred calls back. Bucky smiles as he pulls the door closed.

  
  
  


He’s going to say it. He’s 98% sure he’s going to say it. To Steve’s face. He’s not going to mouth it silently when Steve’s back is turned. He’s not going to whisper it while Steve snores away next to him. Bucky will say it, with his own voice, looking in Steve’s endlessly blue eyes, and Steve is not going to rear back to punch him. Steve will not spit and swear and run away. Right? 

Bucky barely gets a second knock in before Steve opens the door. “Heard your gigantic feet clomping up the stairs. How you doing, Buck?”

Bucky steps inside the apartment. “Happy birthday, punk! I got plans for us.” 

Steve plops down onto the threadbare couch. “Lemme guess, we’re going up to the roof to see as many fireworks as possible.”

“That was  _ last _ year, pal. This year we’re going on an adventure!” Bucky bounces on his toes, clutching the picnic basket. His fingers are stiff around the handle. He decides finally to put it down. “I brought provisions and everything.” 

“Hmm,” is all Steve says, studying the picnic basket. 

“How you feeling, Yankee Doodle?” Bucky grins. “Sixteen on the 4th of July. That’s somethin’.” 

“Same day my birthday is every year,” Steve mutters. He opens the door to the icebox and puts his face inside. “And it’s hotter’n hell today.” 

Bucky reaches down into his pocket to make sure he has the correct number of tokens for the streetcar and the subway. “Lucky for you, then, we’re getting out of this oven and going to the beach. And close that, your ma will have a fit. Go put on a shirt, and get your shoes.” 

Steve actually smiles. It’s a small, fleeting thing. He walks to the bedroom, and Bucky hears a drawer open. “Should I bring a bathing suit? A big, flowery sun hat?” Steve asks, the smartass.

“Stevie, we’re going to Coney Island to watch the fireworks.” Bucky hates the way Steve generally seems to hate surprises. It takes the romance out of everything. Then, Bucky winces at the thought of  _ romance _ , because what is he even trying to do tonight? 

“Sounds good,” Steve states, generally positive though devoid of other emotions.

Bucky wipes his sweaty palms on his trousers. “And it’s  _ my _ treat. Brought enough tokens for both of us to get there and back. And a picnic!”

“Wow,” Steve says, walking back into the living room, his golden hair combed neatly, his white shirtsleeves rolled up to his elbows. “You really know how to take care of a gal, huh? Expectin’ me to put out?” 

  
  
Bucky huffs. “You know I’m a perfect gentleman, punk. I don’t expect nothin’.” Something tingles under Bucky’s skin, but it only lasts for a second. Steve laces his shoes and brushes off the knees of his trousers, not that they had even been dusty. 

“Why the sour face, Bucky?” Steve’s eyes twinkle, his smirk blooming to something bigger. “Aw, c’mon pal. I’m just jerking your chain. I’m excited to find out what you’ve got planned for this little birthday adventure.” Steve approaches Bucky in two steps, easy and open. He puts his hand on Bucky’s shoulder, his long fingers not quite reaching around the way they did a couple years back. Still, it’s friendly and gentle, almost teasing. “So when do we start?”

Bucky scoops up the picnic basket. “When’s the next trolley?”

  
  


It’s breezy along the shoreline, which is great to cool Bucky and Steve off after a hot summer day, but it’s also entirely unhelpful as Bucky tries to spread the old blanket onto the sand. It flaps around everywhere. 

Steve tries to give instructions. “Just put the basket on that corner and weight it down!”

The blanket blows out like a sail as Bucky tries to keep a hold on the opposite corner. “How about you stop watching me screw this up and get over here? Here, sit there.” Bucky is amazed that Steve actually does what he’s told. Between the two boys’ bodies, the basket, and a rock Bucky digs up nearby, their place is secured.

Bucky opens the basket and distributes the sandwiches and apples between himself and Steve. 

“I’m starvin’,” Steve says, unwrapping his meal. “Whoa, is this that rye bread from the Jewish bakery by your job?”

“Yep. Only the best for my best pal’s birthday.” Bucky beams despite realizing he sounds cheesy. “And turkey and dill pickles, just like you like.” 

Steve chows down, but between bites manages to say, “Buck, this is so good. Didn’t even know you could put a sandwich together that was worth a damn.”

“Don’t get too excited, Steve. Still can’t cook to save my life.” Bucky doesn’t understand why that makes his stomach fill with butterflies. It doesn’t feel right to think about learning to cook something just so Steve will compliment him. If he wants praise, he should just clean the kitchen after Winnifred makes Sunday dinner.

They sit together in companionable silence, eating their sandwiches and apples, watching the waves lapping at the shore. A couple gathered groups of people are setting off their own fireworks. A family down the way seems to be roasting hot dogs over a campfire they built. The sunset is turning the clouds in the sky to a glowing orange and pink, with a little purple at the edges. 

Steve takes his shoes and socks off, and Bucky follows suit. Steve wiggles his toes then shoves his foot toward Bucky. “Holy shit, never thought my feet would stop sweating in this weather. Wanna sniff?”

Bucky screws up his face comically. “Hell no! Get those things away from me! Put ‘em down in the sand, like any sane person would do on this beach. Jesus.” 

“Don’t take our Lord’s name in vain over my feet,” Steve laughs. “They’re perfectly fine feet. And hey, I didn’t say anything about your nasty toenails.” 

“Ugh, shut up, pipsqueak.” Bucky playfully shoves Steve’s shoulder. 

“Who you callin’ pipsqueak, you big dumb lug?” Steve shoves in retaliation, his eyebrows raised in a challenge. Suddenly, he rears back and manages to move his feet toward Bucky’s face. “You’re gonna feel the wrath of my smelly feet!” Steve doesn’t exactly kick but he bends his knobby knees to force both feet in the vicinity of Bucky’s chest.   
  
Bucky erupts in a fit of giggles. “Stevie!” Having wrestled his best friend for years now, this is a common occurrence. Bucky grabs hold of one of Steve’s ankles and puts his arm out straight. Steve can only move one leg, and so he’s trying to kick Bucky with his unrestrained leg, which almost never works as a wrestling tactic unless Steve has a clear shot at Bucky’s privates. Steve growls, and it’s a small noise that reminds Bucky of an angry puppy. Rather than voicing his admiration, Bucky says, “You’re sixteen now, fight me like a man!” while still laughing. 

Steve’s face is joyfully determined. Bucky thinks that Steve spends too much time frowning, so it’s a lovely change to see Steve’s little smirk beneath his knit-together eyebrows. Steve pulls a surprise move and twists his little body out of Bucky’s grip. He rears up and pins Bucky’s arms. “Ha!” Steve exclaims, triumphantly. 

“Oh, really?” Bucky waggles his eyebrows, doing his best Groucho Marx. He jerks his torso around until Steve decides to let go, then they tumble around on the picnic blanket together, jockeying to win. Winning usually means Steve’s out of breath and calls uncle. Steve and Bucky both laugh and their breathing gets harder. Steve is usually too stubborn to give in. Bucky frequently ends their wrestling matches by calling a truce and getting up to get a glass of water.

They roll over each other one final time, Steve ending up on top, straddling Bucky’s hips. He plants his hands firmly on Bucky’s shoulders. “Say uncle,” he demands, his small chest rising and falling rapidly. Though the beach itself has gotten darker, Steve’s skin is glowing pale, almost pretty in the moonlight. “Say it,” he sings to Bucky, drawing out all the vowels. He tilts his head to the sky and laughs, carefree. 

Bucky can’t stop looking at Steve above him: his jagged edges, his soft eyelashes fanning against his pink cheeks. Bucky’s heart skips a beat, and he’s suddenly feeling warmer all over.

Steve sighs, bending his elbows so his face gets closer to Bucky’s. “I will tickle you if you don’t say it, Buck. Don’t make me do it.”

Bucky stares, dumbstruck. It’s like he’s forgotten how to form words because he’s too focused on the way Steve’s adam’s apple bobs up and down when he swallows. The lines of his jaw and his neck are just so perfect. 

And Bucky remembers the reason why he was nervous. More than giving Steve a piece of Winnifred’s famous chocolate wacky cake, more than seeing Steve’s face when he opens his birthday gift, more than anything, what Bucky wants is to tell Steve how much he likes him. He doesn’t feel shame that he’s attracted to girls and boys, and since he likes Steve the best, Bucky is sure that Steve deserves to know. 

But it’s a special thing to say. He can’t just spit it out any old time. 

Steve is about to poke Bucky’s sides when a brightly colored explosion splits the July evening sky. They both look up to see the glittering shower of red and blue sparks left by the first firework of the night. In shock, they look into each others’ eyes for a moment after, until Steve jolts up with a dopey grin on his face. “Move over, jerk, it’s starting!” 

Bucky refuses to relinquish his position, and Steve shakes his head. Bucky’s guts threaten to knot themselves together, but he manages to say, projecting stubbornness, “Just use me like a pillow. I ain’t moving.”    
  
Steve blows a breath out and collapses somewhat sideways, his head over Bucky’s belly button, his eyes on the sky. He hums. Another firework, with clusters of sparkling gold, booms overhead. “You’re growing, Bucky,” Steve scoffs. “Getting soft in the middle. Last time I tried this, your ribs were knocking on my skull.” Another red and white explosion highlights Steve’s hair, reflecting a pale pink. 

“You’re bigger too, Stevie,” Bucky says absently, his own head pillowed on his folded arms. 

“Not exactly,” he mumbles like a secret. Fireworks overhead, blue, white, a smaller flash of green. One that arches like a golden weeping willow. “Sixteen and short as ever. They say my back is always gonna be crooked, you know that?”

“Quit that, dummy,” Bucky gently paws at Steve’s head. “You’re perfect the way you are.” Bucky’s face feels flushed, and he clears his throat. “Just shut your yap and enjoy your birthday present.” Blue. Red. Blue. Gold and green, gold and red. 

Steve chuckles, and it shakes Bucky’s midsection. “Fireworks again, pal? How many years will you get me the same gift?”

Bucky sits bolt upright, sending Steve flat onto the sand with an  _ oof _ , and he grabs for the picnic basket. “Wrong!” He digs down into the basket’s corner, producing the wrapped gift. “It’s a special year!” Bucky holds his hand out to Steve, palm up.    
  
Steve sits up and brushes some stray grains of sand off his arms. One of his suspenders has slipped from his shoulders, and the ocean breeze turns up a cowlick at the back of his head. He sets his eyes on the box and blushes, rubbing at the back of his neck. “A box with a proper bow? You go to Tiffany’s?”

Bucky grins as another firework flashes and bangs overhead, nearby revelers  _ ooh _ -ing and  _ aah _ -ing. Other people don’t usually notice that Steve is funny. Intense, and quiet, sure, but he can be sharp as a damned tack, dry and biting. “Just open it, punk.” 

Steve pulls on the end of the twine, and the bow slips loose. He carefully pulls back the paper to reveal his gift. His eyes go soft, one corner of his mouth turning upward. Long, lithe fingers reach down into the tiny package and produce a wrapped orange taffy, which Steve promptly unwaps and shoves past his lips. “Ohmhygawb,” Steve practically moans around the sticky sweetness. 

There’s a prickle at the back of Bucky’s neck as he witnesses Steve’s satisfaction. His tongue feels too thick in his own mouth. There’s a whistle and a boom overhead. 

Then, Steve sees the real prize. He gingerly holds up a piece of charcoal, squinting at it with his shitty night vision. “Bucky,” he breathes out. “I told you to stop buyin’ me art supplies. Save your money for somethin’ else.”   
  
Bucky nudges Steve’s knee with his own, but Steve keeps his knee against Bucky’s instead of squirming away. “Those are special, Stevie. I made ‘em just for you.” Bucky’s been working after school at a woodshop for a few hours each week. It’s only a few cents, but he gets to use his hands. “Mr. Wallace keeps showing me birds he’s drawn in his sketchbook. Turns out the charcoals come from his own shop oven. So uh, he helped me a little. But these are your very own Brooklyn charcoals.” 

“These are really terrific.” Steve’s big blue eyes are fixed inside the little package. He still hasn’t moved from bumping against Bucky’s knee. 

The fireworks pick up the pace, getting louder and more frequent. A band somewhere down the boardwalk is playing a Sousa march, the high notes floating on the humid wind. Bucky takes a deep breath of salty air and scoots to shift his weight. He freezes when he realizes his thigh is pressed parallel to Steve’s. Steve seems too busy smiling at the sky to notice. Bucky’s nerves cool down. 

They sit, so close, watching as the grand finale explodes into motion. Colors burst and bloom, little flashes crackle over bigger ones. 

Bucky leans close, even though he’s on the side of Steve’s good ear. He feels the blush creeping into his face and is glad it’s too dark for anyone to see it. “Happy birthday, Stevie.” Bucky covers Steve’s bony knee with his hand. The blond boy doesn’t move or flinch. Bucky bites his bottom lip, then softly says, “Can you believe it? Whole beach is lighting up just for your birthday, pal.” 

Steve’s bird-boned hand covers Bucky’s and  _ squeezes _ . “You say shit like that every year, Buck. What a sap.” Steve’s hand doesn’t move. He tips his head sideways onto Bucky’s shoulder. 

Neither one of them moves. Bucky hopes Steve’s hearing isn’t good enough to detect the way his heart is pounding. The grand finale ends, the clear summer night sky now covered with plumes of smoke, the scent of gunpowder rife down the shoreline. Bucky thinks he hears Steve hum contentedly, but then he straightens up, scooting away. 

Steve digs into the picnic basket and produces the bottle opener. “You want one of these?” He holds up a bottle of Coca-cola. “They’re warm.”

“You bet I do. Got ‘em special for us.” 

“But warm?” Steve pops the top off a bottle and hands it to Bucky.

Bucky sips. “More like room temperature.” 

Steve pops the cap off his own bottle, holding it out with a knowing smirk.

Bucky raises his own bottle into the air. “A toast. To the sixteenth year of Steven Grant Rogers, the best guy a fella could ever have.” 

Steve clinks his bottle against Bucky’s. His answering smile is closed mouthed, almost sweet, like he knows a secret he’s not supposed to tell. “Thanks, Buck,” Steve blushes. He says nothing else, but his free hand comes to rest on the small of Bucky’s back, rubbing a couple of small circles with graceful artist’s fingers before he pulls away. Steve crawls across the blanket, looks back into the picnic basket, and produces the wrapped bit of wacky cake. 

Instead of saying or offering anything, Steve tears off a chunk of cake and stuffs it, unceremoniously, into his face. He chews with his mouth open, smacking his lips on purpose. 

Bucky shoots him a disgusted expression as his heart and lungs threaten to implode with the way they are squeezing. He doesn’t think he can tell Steve what he wants most to tell him--but at least now he knows how he  _ feels _ about his best guy, and that feeling isn’t going away any time soon. 

_ Nompf. Nom smack smack om nom. _ “You wan’ shom a dis, jurhk?” 

“Nah, Stevie. You enjoy it.” Bucky still cringes, because he knows that what Steve’s angling for, but he’s definitely more fond than ever before. “When you’re done, we should pack up. Gotta catch the trolley home.” 

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos and comments welcome! Keysmashes and emojis welcome in lieu of comments containing real words!
> 
> Follow me and yell about fandom on [Twitter @ DottieAppleSez](http://www.twitter.com/dottieapplesez)


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